


Run, Pretty Bird

by jaegermighty



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3769342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaegermighty/pseuds/jaegermighty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yeah, well," Oliver says, "some people go to therapy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run, Pretty Bird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themuslimbarbie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themuslimbarbie/gifts).



> I took your note about loving college AUs and absolutely _ran_ with it - no pun intended. I hope you enjoy it! Also: [for your listening pleasure, while you read.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UCnvRnCoGYU)

The school gym is similar to most school gyms in that it's horrible: it only has four treadmills, and ten cardio machines that are so in demand that you have to reserve a time slot like, four days ahead. All the weight sets are incomplete, and nobody ever puts them back in the right order, and most of the rowing machines are missing the rubber grip on the handle, so using them is a fast track to some really painful calluses. There are never any clean towels so you have to bring your own (and good luck finding a locker that closes all the way), and Sara always seems to run into someone awkward when she's there: the weirdo guy in her art class that's always staring at her breasts, her ex's new boyfriend who Facebooked her last month to ask if she'd be down for a threesome, her roommate from freshman year who told her entire sorority that Sara had herpes because she was mad about the alarm clock thing, et cetera, so on and so forth. Sara's barely a junior, she's only been here for four semesters; you'd think she'd have made less enemies. 

(Laurel starts laughing, a little hysterically, when Sara complains about this, which is...a little offensive, okay, it's not like she does it on _purpose._ Like - thanks a lot, Laurel.)

Last year, she'd been able to use the nice gym, the one that's usually reserved for the athletic department, but the girl who always let her in graduated last spring, and the prospect of trying to go through the entire process of finding somebody on an official team and becoming their friend just to wrangle their gym key just seems exhausting, so - whatever. She deals with it. If it gets too annoying she'll just suck it up and start running outside, on the track, like most of her friends do. They all say that once you work up a sweat, you don't even feel the snow, right?

Right.

Through about a month's worth of trial and error, she eventually figures out that the optimum time to go is around one o'clock in the afternoon - nobody wants to work out right after lunch, and most people have a class then, anyway. Sara, however, purposely gave herself all morning classes this semester so she could fit in some weekday afternoon shifts at the restaurant if she needed to, so it works just fine for her. There are usually a couple people there, but it's not crowded, so Sara can get her eight miles in without much fuss and move the fuck on with her life.

Until the guy shows up.

("There's always a guy," Laurel says theatrically, dragging the word out into an extra four or five syllables. "I was waiting for this."

"Not true. Sometimes there's a girl."

"True," Laurel says, "but your _guys_ are always way more dramatic than your girls," and okay yeah, Sara has to see her point, there.)

He's hot, which Sara notices straightaway, but he's so _obviously_ hot that noticing it is sort of perfunctory - and older, too, clearly an adult student, like she is. He's also extremely fit, so her first thought is that he's a football player or something that's lost his key to the nice gym, so she resents him a little right off the bat. He has earbuds and an _ancient_ iPod - it doesn't even have a touchscreen - and he picks the treadmill exactly opposite of Sara's, so all in all, he pisses her off. 

She's two miles into her eight when he shows up, but she stops paying attention, too busy glaring at his expensive Adidas sneakers, which she's fairly sure she saw in a commercial recently. He doesn't start off slow at all either, just immediately queues his machine up to a steady run and goes for it - matching her own pace, which doesn't escape her attention. Sara looks up at his face and tries to scowl at him, but he's staring at his iPod, somehow managing to be able to read what it says while he's running, which Sara always has trouble with, so honestly - fuck this dude.

("Oh, Sara," says Laurel, resignedly. Shut up, Laurel.)

Sara waits a few minutes, watching as he apparently decides on a song, and then - get this - _closes his eyes,_ like he's daydreaming while he runs, which is just...honestly! Sara grits her teeth, and scowls some more, and then ups her speed a few notches and keeps staring at him, silently daring him to notice. 

Which...he doesn't.

("The poor guy probably just wanted to work out in peace, Sara," Laurel says. "Did you ever think that maybe you were being one of those awkward gym weirdos you're always complaining about? Like glaring at him for no reason and - "

"Do you want me to finish my story or what?" Sara asks, and Laurel huffs.

"Fine.")

There are two things Sara is determined to accomplish in this situation: run faster than him, and run longer than him. She does manage both - barely. The guy ends up doing a basic twenty-minute workout - eyes closed the whole time, barely any sign of exertion, of _course_ \- before hopping off the treadmill and strolling casually over to the weights (apparently the run _was_ his warm up - the cocky son of a bitch), not even sparing a glance at Sara, who is about ready to collapse at this point. She manages to hang on for another minute or two, to make it less obvious, before she gives up, wobbling her way back to the ground on jelly legs and only barely managing to make it to the bench for her towel and water bottle. 

She watches him lift while she catches her breath; his form is perfect, his back is to her, his t-shirt has the logo for her favorite college basketball team, and his leg muscles are incredible. She loathes him. She literally wants him dead, in this moment.

("God, you have so many issues," says Laurel. 

Well. Like...yeah.)

 

 

So, she's competitive. Sure. It's not like she doesn't know this already - it's why Beca had dumped her for that dumbass poli sci major in the first place. 

"It's just - everything's a contest, with you? It's so tiring," Beca had said, wringing her hands like an old lady, something Sara had thought was kind of cute, once upon a time. "Every time we go anywhere I sort of feel like you're...showing me off or something. Like I'm a prize; it really makes me uncomfortable."

Considering the fact that Sara had managed to snag the hottest girl on campus before the first week of classes had even ended, she thinks she had a right to be a little cocky - but whatever. Beca wasn't into that, it's fine. 

It's just not something she can help - who wouldn't turn out to have a little bit of a complex, growing up with a sister like Laurel? Sara's felt like the before picture in the informercial for Laurel Lance's Key to Success self-motivational tapes her entire life; of course she's competitive. She doesn't think it's necessarily a _bad_ thing. 

"It's not," her mother says, while her dad sighs and shakes his head in the background, that look on his face like he's exasperated with the world but doesn't give enough of a shit to do anything about it, "obviously, you let it get out of control sometimes, but you're young! You're allowed. It drives you, Sara, it helps you accomplish the things you want to do. Be proud of it."

She knows that's true. She also knows that the opposite is true as well - sometimes, it hurts more than it helps. Makes her concentrate on shit that doesn't matter, instead of the things that do. But Sara can't make herself stop anymore than Laurel can make herself stop being so _good_ at things - and why would she want to, anyway?

Sometimes it's the reason she gets up out of bed; other times it's the reason she can't. Either way, it's who she is, and Sara's just now coming around to liking that person. So like, again: whatever.

 

 

Gym Guy becomes a regular. And by regular, Sara means _extremely regular:_ he is, for all she can tell, the type of person who freaks out when their routine is interrupted in any way, which Sara feels is fairly accurate, considering how disgruntled he looked the one time he ambled in at his regular time and found all the treadmills occupied. (Sara may or may not have gloated a little. In her head, of course.) 

He's also clearly one of those people that zone when they're working out; Sara doesn't think he's ever even noticed she was there, let alone that she's trying to one-up him all the time. On one hand, it's probably a good thing. She's in better shape now than she's ever been in her life, and she's not sure how he'd react if he ever noticed. (Like, she's good. But he's got some kind of freakish alien stamina when it comes to running, so she's not sure how she'd hold up if he decided to start competing back.) On the other hand...it does take some of the fun out of winning, to be honest.

"This is the strangest non-problem you have ever had," is Barbara's take on it. Sara sighs mournfully; Babs thinks _all_ of Sara's problems are non-problems. "What makes you think he hasn't noticed? Maybe he did, and he's just ignoring you because he thinks you're weird."

Sara doesn't reply, instead choosing to lunge forward over her knees to smush her face into the pillow. Barbara snorts, leaning over from her little pillow fort to poke her thigh. Sara grunts, swatting half-heartedly at her hand. 

"What's his name?"

"I don't know," Sara moans. "He's hot, though." There's a conspicuous silence, and Sara peeks one eye open, zeroing in on the contemplative look on Barbara's face. "No, Babs. Do not."

"What?" Babs says. "You're not curious?"

"Well, of course I'm _curious_ ," Sara says, "but you promised me you weren't going to hack into the school servers anymore."

"I promised you I would not hack into the school servers _in case of emergency,_ " Babs says, her eyes looking even bigger than usual, wide and magnified by her glasses. "Is this not an emergency? I mean, for you."

"You just said it was a non-problem!"

"Just because I don't condone it doesn't mean I'm not going to take your feelings on the matter seriously," Babs says, reaching over and snagging her tablet from the nightstand. "Your feelings are valid, Sara."

"God," Sara mutters, smushing her face back into the pillow. They're both gonna get arrested someday.

"What do you know about him?" Babs asks, unconcerned, already tapping away.

"Literally nothing! I already told you. He comes in at one-thirty every day, and he's rich, probably. Nice face, shitty iPod. And he's a fuckin triathlete or something."

"Nothing else?" Babs presses. "What about his clothes? Does he wear any shirts with logos on them, like a high school sport team or something?"

Sara scrunches up her nose. "I dunno."

"Come on, Sara, put those future detective skills to work."

"Oh, shut up." Sara sighs. "I mean, I saw him wearing a shirt that said 'Los Angeles' on it once."

"Okay," Babs says, "so he's either from LA, or visited there and bought a t-shirt. That's a start."

"Or he could just shop at Abercrombie like ninety percent of the male population on this campus."

"Point." 

"Wait." Sara rolls over, angling her chin so she can see Babs' face from where she's lying. "He has a tattoo! I forgot. It's a little, like, star thing, on his chest."

" _Now_ we're talking," Babs says, and starts tapping again in earnest. "His chest, huh? Oh my God, he's one of those guys that works out shirtless isn't he? Gross."

"No, he - " Sara scrambles for an explanation that doesn't involve confessing that she was staring at him so intensely that she once caught a glimpse down the collar of his tank top, as it gaped open while he was doing push ups. "Just once."

Babs looks like she's torn between laughing and kicking Sara off her bed in disgust. "Uh huh."

Sara's neck is starting to hurt from keeping her head craned back, so she scowls at Babs' feet instead. "It wasn't a normal star. It had more than five points."

"Was it a Star of David?"

"No. More than six too, maybe like eight or ten? And - " Sara gestures vaguely. "The criss-crossy lines inside looked different. Also, it had little dots between the points."

"Hmm." Babs taps a few more times, then swings her tablet around, holding it over Sara's head. "Is this it?"

"Oh my God," Sara says, mouth falling open at the picture, a perfect replica of the tattoo. "How the fuck - "

"Because I'm excellent, that's how." Babs smirks. "Also, I like their music."

"Music?" Sara asks. "That's a _band logo_?"

"Yeah, Lian Yu is their name," Babs says. "You've never heard of them before? They do that song _Demons_ , you know…" Babs hums a little melody, trailing off with a dramatic eye roll when Sara just stares at her blankly. "Well, they're good, and this is a good lead. Hey, I can try out that Facebook algorithm I wrote, finally!"

"Lian Yu, what is that, Chinese?" Sara is almost disappointed, somehow; she hadn't figured this guy to be the type to get some dumb band tattoo. Like those idiots she went to high school with who'd give each other amateur at-home tats of the Iron Maiden symbol in the back of shop class. "What's their music like?"

Babs shrugs, still tapping. "Sort of like...I dunno. Kind of bluesy rock, I guess? They are from China though. Their main singer used to be a model or something there." 

"Sounds...niche." Sara smirks. "You're spending too much time with those hipster hacker friends of yours."

"Excuse me," Babs says, offended, "it's a very popular band! Just because _you're_ a premature Luddite who doesn't know the difference between Jesse McCartney and Paul McCartney - "

"I know Jesse McCartney," Sara says, just to tease her. "The Beatles, right?"

"Okay. You did that on purpose, I acknowledge that, so I'm gonna let that go." Sara laughs at her frustrated little face, squeezed into a stern frown. "I'll find your gym guy for you, just gimme a couple hours."

"You don't actually have to," Sara says, laughing. "I didn't ask you to, _you're_ the one that went into Nancy Drew mode the second I mentioned I didn't know his name - "

"Well, you have your hobbies, and I have mine," Babs says, somewhat primly. She squints at Sara, over the rim of her glasses. "Of course you could always just talk to him tomorrow. You know, _ask_ him what his name is. That might solve the problem entirely."

Sara groans and rolls over again. The pillow is starting to get a little dip where her face keeps smooshing into it. 

"That's what I thought," Babs says smugly, and returns happily back to her tapping.

 

 

She doesn't have a crush, okay. She doesn't _get_ crushes. Well - not anymore, anyway. Not since the disastrous Tommy Merlyn incident in tenth grade, which he and Laurel _still_ give her shit about, God.

Besides, if she _were_ the type of person to get a crush on some rando with ridiculous arm muscles and a dumbass band tattoo on his right pec, she certainly wouldn't be getting all weird about it. Like staring at his legs while he lifts weights and getting nervous butterflies in her stomach whenever he walks past her treadmill, washing her good workout pants every day instead of switching in-between with her crappy ones like normal, because the good ones make her ass look better. Like - whatever. Sara's not about that kind of thing. 

Honestly. 

 

 

Babs' roommate - a sophomore named Frankie, honestly one of Sara's favorite people in the entire world but also a very busy person with "tests to study for, Lance! _So many_ tests!" - returns and kicks her out before the elusive gym guy's identity is revealed, so Sara spends the rest of the afternoon trying to convince herself that she's not disappointed. It sort of works, mostly, until her phone pings with an email and Sara nearly spills the bottle of Gatorade she's guzzling all down the front of her shirt.

 _It took me a little bit, I guess your gym groupie is just as much of a technophobe as you are,_ Babs has written. _He doesn't even have a Facebook! Anyway, I found him eventually, and you were right - he is rich. If you marry him, I do expect a finder's fee of some sort, just FYI._

Sara snorts, and scrolls down a little to find a scan of a newspaper article from a few years ago - damn, Babs is scary sometimes. The headline declares that "Queen Industries Sponsors New Community Outreach Program," and the picture attached has her gym guy, his hair a little longer, his muscles a little smaller, standing on some kind of platform, behind an older couple. Presumably his parents. Who are the Queens. As in Queen Industries. 

"Fuck," Sara says emphatically. _Queen Industries?_ Like - it's not exactly a surprise that he's from Starling too - plenty of people here are - but the richest family in the city? Christ, her dad couldn't shut up about Robert Queen and his shady dealings, for like four straight years, back when he was working organized crime, when Sara and Laurel were young. She didn't know the guy had kids. Frankly, she kind of always pictured him as the Don from the Godfather, like this old guy with slicked back hair and a mustache, smoking a cigar, at a back table in a darkened restaurant. Apparently in real life, Robert Queen looks more like somebody's peewee soccer coach than he does Marlon Brando. 

_I mean, it goes without saying that you sure know how to pick 'em, Sara,_ Babs continues. _But you're right. He is hot! Let me know how it goes. xoxoxo_

At the bottom is an address, not too far off campus. Sara stares at it incredulously, wondering if Babs actually tracked down this guy's _house_ because holy shit, that crosses some lines, doesn't it, until she notices the email right beneath it, which is - oh. It's a bar. Right. 

Well, Sara thinks, plugging it into her GPS, it can't be any creepier than asking her hacktivist best friend to sleuth out his name based on a tattoo she wouldn't have even known about if she hadn't been leering at him, so whatever. Whether he works there or just hangs there a lot, who knows, but well - Babs wouldn't steer her wrong.

Also, what kind of name is Oliver? He's probably a prick, anyway. Better to find out now and nip this whole feeling-things shit in the bud. 

("Sure, Sara," Laurel would say. "Yeah. That's why you're going."

Sara is...probably not going to tell Laurel about this part.)

 

 

Sara thinks about conning someone into going with her - that girl from her Stats class maybe, they've been making noises about hanging out - but in the end decides against it. She wants to keep her options open. And like, you know. It's easier to act like an obsessive weirdo about a guy when nobody's there to make fun of you.

She puts on a red dress, and her lucky leather jacket, and smears on some of that lipstick that her mom gave her for Christmas, that she says makes Sara look like a supermodel. She stands in front of her bathroom mirror for half an hour, trying to do that fancy "artfully tousled but still very neat looking" thing that Laurel pulls off so effortlessly, but all she manages to do is make it look sort of tangled, so she gives up. Like, whatever, anyway, since when does she care. She's being a freak about this.

She's never been to this bar before; it's a sort of upscale type place - a nightclub, really, with neon track lighting on the walls and heavy, thumping EDM. She even gets to skip the line to get in, when the bouncer looks over and sees how low cut her dress is, which - ew. But hey, she didn't have to pay the cover.

It's the kind of place that Tommy would really enjoy, Sara decides, as soon as she walks out onto the floor - the sort of place he drags Laurel to all the time for dates, babbling some bullshit in the foyer of their house about youth culture and overusing the word "millennial" while Laurel rolls her eyes at Sara over his shoulder. Sara's more of a sports bar girl herself, and Laurel likes classy places with table service and sommeliers, but Tommy's a force of nature when it comes to Friday night plans, so it's not like she's in unfamiliar territory, here.

She parks it by the bar, on a stool where she can see most of the floor, and starts making some strategic eye contact. She lets a skinny guy with a goatee and a half-sleeve tattoo buy her a drink, and he laughs at her when she asks for a whiskey sour, like he thinks she's joking. Sara lets him talk at her for a little bit, because he's clearly not going to produce his wallet until he's done trying to be funny, so.

"I'm just saying, you look more like a martini sort of woman," he says. Sara nods slowly. "You know, James Bond's drink. Shaken, not stirred."

"I don't like gin," Sara tells him.

"I'll pretend you didn't just say that," the guy replies, and pauses, waiting for Sara to laugh. She doesn't.

"Honestly," Sara says, "I think I'm just gonna stick to the whiskey sour."

"You like what you like, huh," he replies, making some big gesture with his hands, clearly gearing up for more talking, "I can respect that, but I'm thinking like, there's something to be said for keeping an open mind, too - "

Somebody plants a drink next to Sara's elbow, and she turns, startled. There's a whiskey sour on the bartop, and standing behind it, a girl with short brown hair and a scowl. "Nate," she says coolly, "didn't I already kick you out once tonight?"

Sara's tattooed drink negotiator blanches. "Thea, come on, my friends are all here. Don't be like that - "

"Your _friends_ are of age, and _you_ aren't," the girl - Thea - replies, "so get the fuck out. If I see you in here again I'm calling your dad, don't think I won't."

Nate grumbles and pushes off from the bar, shooting Sara a weird look as he goes. Sara ignores him and turns to her new best friend, who's looking more than a little pleased with herself. "Thanks."

"Did it for my liquor license, not you." Thea shrugs, giving Sara a lopsided smile. "Whiskey's on the house though. Since I kicked out your free drink ticket and all."

"Was I that obvious?" Sara asks, laughing when Thea shrugs again, a look on her face like, _well, yeah._ "God, he was underage, too? Ew."

"Well, he's 20. It's sorta on the line of creepy, so I think you're alright." Thea glances over Sara's shoulder, clearly keeping one eye on the crowd, and the proprietary, confident way she moves behind the bar tells Sara that she's more than just a bartender. "What's your name? I haven't seen you in here before."

"Sara Lance," Sara says. 

"As in Laurel Lance?" Thea asks, surprised, and Sara groans out loud. "Oh - that's a yes, then?"

"Don't tell me," Sara says, "you went to school with her, you were in the chess club together, she was your mentor and the kindest friend you've ever had, such _courage_ and _integrity_ inspired you in a way that no other person ever has - "

"Wow, okay," Thea interrupts, laughing, "no, I know her boyfriend, sort of. Let me guess - little sister?"

"It's the worst," Sara informs her, sipping at her whiskey sour, sort of generally demoralized. 

"Isn't it?" Thea replies wryly. She smirks a little, and holds her hand for Sara to shake. "I'm Thea."

"Nice to meet you." Sara shakes her hand, somewhat disconcerted by this whole thing. She doesn't think Thea's hitting on her, but she doesn't know how to make sense of her interest any other way when there are at least three other people waiting to order. Well - maybe it's how she schmoozes with customers, Sara guesses. "You a manager here?"

"Owner, actually," Thea says, sounding surprised. "You know, most people think I'm just a bartender."

Sara just shrugs. She doesn't know how to say _well my dad's a cop so there are skills you pick up, and literally everything about you is screaming "I'm the boss!" at me right now_ without like, oversharing in a weird way. "Wow, club owner at what - twenty-one, twenty-two?"

"Somewhere around there, yeah," Thea says, tapping one fingernail on the bar in approval. "And yeah, it's impressive, I know." 

Sara laughs. "Well, I like that. Confidence, that's good."

"I try." Thea smirks again, cocking one hip out and leaning up against the bar. She taps her fingernails on the bar again, looking contemplative, and Sara feels thrown off-kilter again, still unsure of what exactly is happening, here. "Okay, so, perks to being the owner: I have a sort of private section, upstairs, for friends and stuff. There's another bar, a pool table. A little bit more laid back than down here," she says, and gestures out to the dance floor, with its wild, strobing lights. "I'm about to head up there - d'you wanna come with? You seem cool."

"Uh," Sara says, taken aback, "well - listen, it's not that you're not gorgeous or that I wouldn't be interested, like, any other time, but tonight's sort of - "

"Oh no, no, oh my God," Thea says, holding up one hand, "I'm not hitting on you." She starts laughing. "I mean, like - not that there's anything wrong with - I'm just straight, is all. I was just…"

"Oh," Sara says, and then they're both laughing. "Well that - clears some things up."

"No shit." Thea grimaces a little, running one hand through her hair in a gesture that reminds Sara of her dad, weirdly. "Sorry, I'm being totally weird, aren't I? I just like - well I recognized you, sort of, and I thought it'd be cool if you came up, that's all. I swear I'm normally much less of a freak."

"Seems to be the trend tonight," Sara says wryly. She sighs, shooting a look over her shoulder at the dance floor. If Oliver is out there, somewhere, she's not likely to find him in that mess, and she's not all that enthused to try. And the concept of a pool table _is_ enticing. "Okay, sure. Sounds like fun."

"Great." Thea jerks her chin, gesturing Sara to come around to the back of the bar. "Hang out here for a few, okay? I gotta check on a few things and then I'll take you up."

Sara shrugs, grabbing her drink and hopping up on a stool that's tucked back into a corner, behind a cash register. Thea melts away with a wave, and Sara contemplates her situation, smirking at little at the weird looks she's getting, from the other bartenders and patrons, alike.

It crosses her mind that she should tell someone where she is, on the off chance that Thea isn't as nice as she seems, so she shoots off a text to Babs, who of course replies right away with some emojis that Sara can't make sense of. She swears Babs tries to actually like, communicate with them somehow, but she doesn't know what a girl in a red dress followed by four thumbs up symbols is supposed to translate to, exactly.

 _Hey,_ she texts back, _why'd you send me to this club, anyway? Does he work here or what?_

 _omg you didn't even finish reading my email, did you,_ Babs replies. _his sister owns it_

Sara blinks, looking up and catching sight of Thea, making her way back towards the bar, moving through the crowd with a casual confidence that is rather familiar, in context. Well, fuck, Sara thinks.

 _ok i'm stupid,_ she texts back. 

_gooooood luck!!!!!_ Babs sends back, with three smiley faces. Sara locks her phone and slips it back into her neckline, smirking. Clearly she's got luck on her side already. 

 

 

The "private section" upstairs is really more of a private box with a view of the dance floor - cordoned off by two scary-looking fuckers in matching suits and Secret Service earpieces, that is, but other than that, it's sort of nice. There is a pool table, and a smaller bar, with free jello shots set up in tiny pyramids on these little silver platters, and everyone in there is sort of splayed out somewhere, looking casually gorgeous and artfully bored. Even the bartenders are cuter, up here. 

_Rich people,_ Sara thinks.

Thea takes Sara behind the bar again and makes her another whiskey sour, cracking open a bottle of some sort of wine cooler for herself - "make fun of me all you want, okay, but it's the only thing I can drink all night and still be able to finish my paperwork." - peppering her with questions that Sara fields with various levels of bemusement. Yes, she's going to school. No, she's not a lesbian. Yes, queer is what she prefers. Yes, she's a little old to be only a junior. No, not everyone goes to college right away. Yes, people are weird about it. 

"My brother took a while to get there too," Thea says, waving at some girl in a completely over the top ballgown who's just walked through the door. "He was trying to get me to go, but he gave up after this place took off. Guess it kind of ruined his whole 'you need a backup plan' thing."

Sara's not gonna be the idiot who gives her game away so soon, no way. She's cool, she's got this. "Your brother?" Damn it.

"Oliver." Thea grins. "He's around here somewhere. We share the apartment in the basement; he's probably studying for something." She rolls her eyes, smiling fondly. "Nerd."

"There's an apartment in the basement?" Sara asks, surprised. "Like - you live under your club? Doesn't that get - "

"Loud? Annoying?" Thea shrugs. "Yeah. But the club's all we've got now. Oliver couldn't afford to live in the dorms, and there was plenty of room down there. So we spruced it up."

Sara nods, taking this in. She desperately wants to ask, but she thinks of every person who pressed her for details after her dad stepped down as chief, way past the point of politeness, and decides that she doesn't need to know. "So - how do you know Tommy?"

Thea looks over at her, surprised, and then smiles a little. Sara gets the feeling she's just passed a test. "His parents knew my parents. I haven't seen him in ages though."

"The Merlyns, huh?" Sara doesn't know a single thing about them other than the fact that the dad's a dick. She and Tommy aren't _that_ close. "That must've been...something."

"Yeah. We all used to be friends, when we were little kids. His dad worked with my dad, so we got babysat together, shuffled off to the playroom during parties, et cetera." Thea's gaze goes a little troubled. "We weren't allowed to see Tommy anymore though, after he got cut off. And then _we_ got cut off, so." Thea shrugs, raising her wine cooler in a lonely toast. "Now we're all just a bunch of former sad little rich kids. Well - formerly rich, still sad. We should start a support group."

"I think Tommy would be down for that," Sara says sincerely. Thea smiles at her crookedly. He really would be, though. "Well, I can tell him you said hi. He and Laurel are like, disgustingly in love, so I see him all the time."

Thea shakes her head. "God, it's a small fuckin' world. I can't believe we've never met before. And you go to CWU, right? That's where Ollie is, too."

Sara takes a deep swallow of whiskey, wondering if she should come clean or what - there's an element of double talk going on here, and she's not sure if it's just her, or if Thea is feeling her out the same way Sara is. _Play it close, play it quiet,_ Sara thinks, hearing it in her dad's voice. _Don't show your cards until the very last second._ "Yeah - maybe I've seen him around? I dunno what he looks like, though."

"Yeah, maybe." Thea gives her that Cheshire Cat smile again. "Okay - I've gotta make my rounds again. Want another free drink before I go?" Sara grins, shaking your head. "If you're sure." Thea pats Sara's knee as she stands. "Listen, stick around, okay? Mingle, have some jello shots, win a few pool games. I'll find you later."

"Alright," Sara says, easily. She looks at the crowd again, still lounging around, looking beautiful. "I'm sure I can find something to entertain myself."

Thea laughs. "Of that, I have no doubt," she says. 

 

 

The crowd up here is fairly insufferable, and it takes Sara all of ten minutes to regret not taking Thea up on that third free whiskey. She's got the twenty she came up with for the cover, but she'd like to save that if she could for lunch tomorrow, so she picks a few pockets and gets herself another drink. She doesn't wanna let anybody buy one for her, up here. These aren't the kinds of people she wants to encourage, frankly.

There's a group of rich frat guys at the pool table and Sara goads them into a game so she can get her head back on straight - and winning something, especially against a few jerks, is the best way to do that, for Sara. It's easy, familiar - talking shit back and forth, warning them off with a well-placed cue in a sensitive place, whenever one of them starts to get handsy - and mindless, almost like working out is, for her. This sort of thing - it gives her something to focus on, so the rest of her head can think. It doesn't make much sense, but it works.

The night hasn't exactly turned out how she'd planned - well, she hadn't really _had_ a plan, really, beyond "go where Babs points, for the vague prospect of getting laid," so she supposes that's to be expected. But it hasn't been bad, necessarily. Whatever game she and Thea are playing is fun, and Sara hasn't been out on her own in ages, anyway. She usually hits that little strip of college bars with Frankie and Babs on the weekends, which is fun, for sure, but - sometimes, Sara just wants something a little bit more high stakes than Tequila Sunrises and karaoke with her friends. She's a thrill-seeker, after all. It runs in the family.

The night passes quickly, and she holds court at the pool table, after the frat brothers grumble away. She plays a group of drunk girls in fancy dresses, one of whom gives Sara the little tiara of beads she's wearing, as "payment" when Sara wins. There're a few guys who come up to hit on her, and Sara waves them away, unless they want to play. One of the bartenders plays a game on his break - Roy, is his name, and is clearly a friend of Thea's, by the clipped, protective questions he asks - and it's the most challenging game of the night. She still wins, though.

"I owe you a drink," Roy says, as she's lining up the shot to sink the eight ball. He doesn't even bother to wait for her to actually do it; the fact that she's won is a foregone conclusion at this point. "House rules: you beat one of us at pool, we pay for your next shot, out of pocket."

"Hard to see how you folks make any money around here, with all the free booze you give away," Sara says, grinning as the ball goes in cleanly. "And no thanks - I've had enough."

"Come on, you can have anything," Roy says, having warmed to her a little. Apparently beating him at pool is the way to earn his approval, Sara guesses. "We have non-alcoholic stuff, too. I make a mean virgin cocktail."

Sara laughs. "Okay, fine. Gimme your most expensive one, then."

Roy winces. "Somehow I knew you'd go there." Sara taps her watch pointedly and he ambles off, grumbling.

Bored with pool, Sara crosses over to the window, where she can see most of the main club - it's going on one o'clock, at this point, and the Friday night crowd is in full swing. She watches the dance floor for a few moments - it looks like a bed of squirming vines, from up above - and even sees a few people she recognizes. There's a few girls on one of the couches in the back, that Sara knows are on the volleyball team, and a guy from her lit class, chatting up some girl at the bar. 

Thea's there, by the foot of the stairs that lead up to the balcony. She's talking to a man much taller than she is, and laughing while she does it, and it occurs to Sara that that might be Oliver. She turns away quickly, her heart pounding. She doesn't want to know, for some reason.

She has a moment of emotional vertigo, standing there, anxious and breathing fast about the prospect of even _seeing_ this guy's _face,_ and she clutches the railing, wondering what the fuck she's doing, why she's even here. It's just some _guy_ , she thinks wildly. Why is she so invested? Why is her heart beating so fast? There are plenty of hot people, in the world, plenty enough for Sara to be discerning. Why is it this one?

"Alright," she hears, and jumps a little, surprised at Roy's sudden appearance at her elbow. "Most expensive, non-alcoholic cocktail on our menu - I present to you, the Chai Blossom." He hands over a tall glass of amber liquid, with large twists of lemon peels and one of those little star-shaped anise pods, floating among the ice. "It's like, fancy iced tea, basically, but it takes like ten minutes to make, so we charge seventeen dollars for it." He rolls his eyes, a sort of conspiratorial look on his face. It's a _can you believe this, fucking rich people_ sort of look; Sara's familiar with it. 

" _Seventeen_ dollars, you're shitting me," Sara says, incredulous. "I mean, holy shit, I feel kind of bad now, do you wanna split it or something?"

Roy rolls his eyes. "I'd have lost more on that game if were were playing for cash," he says. "It's yours, take it."

Sara shrugs, and gives it a try. It's sort of bubbly, but he's right - it is mostly fancy iced tea. "It's good."

"I'm the only one who makes it right," Roy confesses, proud in a sort of sheepish sort of way. "Thea keeps bugging me to take it off the menu, but there's a few regulars who order it all the time."

"Who comes to a nightclub and pays seventeen dollars for iced tea on a regular basis?"

"You'd be surprised," Roy replies wryly. "People are fucking weird."

Sara is surprised into a laugh. "Yeah." She takes another sip, her pulse back at its normal pace. "Listen - I think I'm gonna take off, here. Can you tell Thea that I'm sorry I couldn't wait?"

"You got work or something in the morning?" Roy asks neutrally, conspicuously not answering her question.

Sara shrugs. "It's been kind of a weird night," she confesses. "I think I need to call it, you know."

"Yeah, I feel you." Roy chews on his bottom lip for a second. "I'll tell her. I should give you her number, though. She'll want to keep in touch with you."

"You're gonna give out her number, just like that?" Sara asks, grinning. "I could be a serial killer."

"Well, I could've asked for yours instead," Roy says. "I just figured this was the option less likely to end with a pool cue in my balls."

Sara snorts, and pulls out her phone. "Alright, punch it in, tiger."

Roy smirks a little as he does it. He seems like good people, Sara muses. She wonders if Thea's hitting that. She clearly could be, if she wanted to.

"Need a cab or anything?" he asks, as he hands her phone back. 

"Nah," Sara says. She hands over the Chai Blossom, now half empty. "But drink the rest of this. You deserve it."

Roy shakes his head, obviously trying not to smile. "You sure? Gets dangerous out there, on weekends."

"Well, if I die," Sara replies, shrugging on her jacket, "I promise to let God know you said that."

 

 

 _got pretty tired and had to jet but it was great meeting you,_ Sara texts, on the bus ride back to campus. She bites her lip and adds: _this is sara btw_

She doesn't get a reply until much later, back at home, doing algebra in her head to try and calm herself down into sleep. Her phone lights up on the charger, and Sara performs some impressive drunken acrobatics to reach over and pick it up without actually getting out of bed. 

_lol i know who u are,_ is all Thea's replied with. Then, as Sara is staring at it, slightly flummoxed, another one comes through: _it's a green light from me, btw. see u soon :)_

Sara drops the phone like it's on fire and dives beneath her covers, screeching out loud for good measure. _Fuck,_ what a weird night. What a weird life.

She could get used to it, she supposes, grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. You know, if she _had_ to.

 

 

Oliver's not at the gym the next day, which Sara tries not to take personally; for all his obsessive rigidity to his routine, he does miss days occasionally, she reminds herself, as does she. It's coming on winter now, and midterms, and sometimes you skip the gym in favor of a nap and a date with a term paper. Whatever.

She keeps going like normal - every other day, save for weekends, and the next time she sees him is that Wednesday, when he strolls in at his normal time, oblivious as usual to the way people stop and stare as he walks in, men and women alike. Sara keeps her eyes on her iPod and tries not to be one of them, arranging her face into as neutral an expression as possible. 

This lasts about twenty seconds, because Oliver walks straight up to her treadmill, and Sara nearly falls right off of it. 

"Hi," he says, startling slightly when she stumbles, reaching out with one hand and then pulling it back abruptly, as if he wants to reach out and steady her but changes his mind at the last second. "Are you alright?"

"What? Yeah, yes." Sara yanks the emergency cuff out of the treadmill and it slows quickly, allowing her to lean against the bar and catch her breath. "Sorry, you - startled me. Hi."

"I'm sorry."

Sara shrugs, clutching the bar tightly. Her heart is pounding, her skin buzzing. He's wearing that Penn State shirt again, which is ridiculous. Who the fuck likes Penn State, except for Sara? They live in Washington, for Christ's sake. "It's okay."

Oliver just looks at her for an extended moment, his face calm and neutral. Sara shivers a little. "I'm sorry to interrupt your workout," he finally says, "but Thea wanted me to give you this."

Sara looks down and blinks in surprise, realizing for the first time that he's holding a scarf - the one she'd been wearing that night at the club. She wants to laugh, but her heart is still beating too fast, so she doesn't quite manage it. "Oh my God, I didn't even realize I'd left it behind," she says. She doesn't even remember _taking it off,_ actually. "Thank you."

He inclines his head, a weirdly old-fashioned gesture to accept her thanks, like he's a knight or a courtesan or something. Which is also ridiculous. "She had it dry cleaned. Apparently it had a rough night."

"Well, it wasn't the only one," Sara says wryly. "I'll have to - thank you, tell her thanks for me. I can pay you back."

"No, please," he says, with a small smile. "Thea takes a load to the cleaners at least twice a week, it was no trouble."

"Okay," Sara says, for lack of anything clever. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." He nods again, draping the scarf carefully on top of her gym bag, then straightens up and just _looks_ at her again, with those grave, solemn blue eyes. Sara feels weirdly powerful up on her treadmill, a foot or two taller than usual, forcing him to look up to see her face - but also, sort of exposed, like the whole world is looking at her through his eyes. Her heart is still pounding very, very fast.

"Well," he says after a moment, "I'll let you get back to it."

Sara almost lets him go, but as he breaks eye contact, she watches his shoulders slump, a little, and she thinks, _okay, enough of this._

"Wait," she says. "You wanna race?"

Oliver stops. "Race?" 

"Yeah." Sara gives him her best smile, the one Frankie says is charming. "First one to three miles wins? I know you're good."

"You're better," Oliver replies, and Sara feels her smile widen. "I'm not sure it would be fair."

"Well, we can do something with the weights afterwards, then," Sara says. "Average it out."

Oliver's solemn expression finally cracks, a small, yet genuine smile emerging. Sara feels a thrill of pride at having earned it. "What's the prize?"

"Loser buys the winner dinner, of course," Sara says. "Even fitness robots like you gotta eat, right? We could at least get you some oil for your gears, or whatever."

Oliver's smile grows in strength. "Occasionally, I eat, yes."

"Great." Sara takes a quick swig from her water bottle, feeling his eyes on her neck as she swallows. "C'mon then. Use the one next to me so I can be sure you don't cheat."

"You've been running for awhile already, isn't that cheating?" Oliver asks, but loops his towel on the treadmill next to hers, already queuing it up. "You must be at least halfway through your workout by now, and I just got here."

"You think I can't take you?" Sara grins. She's only been here for like ten minutes, but it's nice to know that he hasn't caught on that she's been deliberately aligning her workouts with his for weeks now. "Is this your version of trash talk? Concern trolling?"

"If I were trying to trash talk you, I'd point out that I've been doing marathons for about five years now," Oliver replies, tilting his head and doing this cute little sideways glance thing that makes Sara want to giggle out loud. "And you, what, ran track in high school?"

"This is a sprint, not a marathon, asshole," Sara says cheerfully. "Get ready to lose."

"Whatever you say," Oliver replies. 

 

 

("So," says Laurel, "you won. Right?"

"Well," Sara replies.

"Sara!"

"Of _course_ I won," Sara says, and Laurel laughs. "Who are you talkin' to, sister?"

"Only you could pick up a hot guy by kicking his ass at something," Laurel says, sounding caught between pride and awe. "And in public, too."

"It weeds out the insecure ones," Sara says.)

 

 

Oliver wins at weights. They split the difference and buy each other a latte. Sara gets vanilla in hers, which means he ends up paying a bit more, but he just rolls his eyes at her when she tries to protest.

"We'll do a proper one next time," Sara promises him. "Long distance, endurance, to play to both our strengths. That way our dinner bet will be more fair."

"I knew you were competitive, but it really is a thing with you, isn't it?" Oliver says. Neither of them bothered to shower or change after the gym, and there's something weirdly intimate about being in public with someone in sweaty workout clothes. Like it should be sort of gross, but it isn't. "Like...a _thing._ "

"Why, does it bother you?"

"No." He sounds honest, and a little playful, leaning one elbow on his knee and holding his coffee loosely in the other hand. Sara envies the way he manages to look casual and very controlled, all at the same time. "But you weren't very subtle, you know. About the running thing."

Sara nearly chokes on a gulp of coffee. "I didn't think you noticed."

Oliver laughs out loud at that. "You were glaring at me for a straight hour each day, of course I noticed."

Sara refuses to be embarrassed. She was _trying_ to make him notice, after all. In her own way. "I wasn't glaring, I just - I was annoyed."

"Mhm," Oliver says, sounding amused.

"God," Sara exclaims. "Is that why - you must think I hated you!"

"I thought…" Oliver trails off, grinning a bit. "Well, I thought a few different things."

"Cryptic."

Oliver shrugs, unrepentant. "Well, I didn't mind. Thea's pretty competitive too, I'm used to it."

"I bet," Sara says wryly. "You guys probably grew up doing all those rich kid sports, like what - polo, and horseback riding, and _archery_ \- "

"I was never really the type for school sports," Oliver interrupts, laughing a little, "Thea did, though. I don't think any of those are exclusive to rich people though."

"How should I know? I never played sports either."

"Except for track," Oliver says.

"Except for track," Sara allows, just to make him laugh. He doesn't disappoint. "Okay but, you run marathons now. That's a sport."

"That's a hobby," Oliver corrects. "As is the weight training. For me, anyway."

"What," Sara teases, "you're not planning on a future career as a UFC fighter? Go pro, get a few sponsorships?"

"God - no," Oliver says, grimacing, and Sara laughs at him. "No, it's - you know." He shrugs. "Just a way to stay active."

"Right." Sara leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. He's been stealing glances at them ever since they left the gym, and he does it again now, blatantly, and smiles at her afterwards. "I've seen your regular workout routine, bud, and it's a little hardcore for just a hobby."

"Yeah, well," Oliver says, "some people go to therapy."

Sara feels something shift in her chest, like a door unlatching, and shivers a little bit, meeting his gaze head on. "Yeah, okay."

Oliver doesn't reply for a moment, and Sara just keeps looking at him, feeling goosebumps rising on her arms and thinking about the white noise in her head when she gets into a good run, the way the world melts and falls away until all that's left is your breath, your heartbeat, the slap of your shoes on the ground. Yeah. Okay.

"You know," he says finally, breaking the silence, "it occurs to me that we don't necessarily have to wait for someone to win to have dinner."

"Really," Sara says. 

"It is legal." Oliver tilts his coffee cup at her, like a question mark. "Do you have plans tonight?"

"No," Sara replies slowly, biting her lip against a giddy smile. "How do we know who pays, though?"

"I'm sure we can come up with a way to decide," Oliver says. "There's always rock paper scissors, if we get desperate."

"I mean, if you want," Sara says, "I'm unfairly good at that, too. Just to warn you."

"It seems you are unfairly good at a lot of things."

"Yeah," Sara says, with an easy shrug. Oliver smiles at her.

"It's a date, then."

"Yeah," Sara says again, and smiles back.

 

 

Sara's never had a proper boyfriend before. Girlfriends, sure. Quite a few of those. But guys were for when you wanted a thing that wasn't a thing, or - at least that's how it'd been for Sara, until now.

Oliver isn't a typical boyfriend anyway; he's very quiet, and clearly doesn't like talking about himself. He flirts a lot, but he rarely makes moves - it takes a couple weeks' worth of dates before they even move on from cheek kisses, for pete's sake. He's almost obsessively respectful, to the point where it's actually kind of irritating, and defaults to Sara on almost every single decision, save for the ones they turn into bets. Which he rarely wins.

But. He's kind. Sara likes that. And he has a subtle, sly sense of humor that she loves to coax out of him. He adores his sister, clearly. He calls Sara "birdie," after she tells him the infamous pet canary story, and it's just weird enough that she likes it. He's self-deprecating about his party animal past, and seems to be genuine about this attempt at a college degree, finally. He's paying his own way, and proud of it. There's a lot of shit he's not ready to talk about yet, which Sara can understand. They've got time, and she's in no hurry. 

He also listens, in a strange way that no man Sara has ever known has ever listened - it's like, when she talks, he's really _invested_ in what she says, her opinions and her thoughts, no matter how small or silly, and not just because he cares. It's almost as if he needs to know them, like every conversation they have if a relief to him, somehow. When he asks her a question, he'll watch her carefully as she answers it, his face solemn, and when she's finished talking, he'll smile - as if a weight's been lifted from his shoulders. _Now I know what her favorite kind of soup is,_ she imagines him thinking. _My life can finally continue._

It's weird, but she likes it. She's kind of a narcissist, she guesses. Or maybe - it's just nice to have someone who cares that much. Usually - too often - it's the other way around.

"You do know Dad's gonna flip," Laurel points out, a few weeks in. "He worked for his father for awhile, you know. The police think that - "

" _Laurel_ ," Sara interrupts, "what the fuck, don't tell me anything!"

"What? Dad talks about open cases all the time, you've never complained before."

"I'm _dating_ him," Sara says. It's frustrating, the way Laurel sticks so rigidly to her morals right up until she _doesn't,_ when she reaches this internal limit or finish line where she abruptly stops playing by the rules and conveniently forgets to warn people that she's about to go off-road. "He hasn't told me anything about his dad yet, and it's not - it's not right for me to know anything until he's ready to talk about it."

"Okay, but that's exactly _why_ you need to know," Laurel says stubbornly. "You're sleeping in the same bed with this guy, Sara. I'd rather you know the facts than keep yourself in the dark because of his emotional issues, or whatever."

"We haven't slept together yet," Sara says.

The line goes quiet, and Sara double checks her phone to make sure the call hasn't been dropped. 

"Oh," Laurel says finally. 

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything! I just..." Sara can hear the smile in her sister's voice. "You know."

"Yeah." Sara sighs. "Well."

Laurel is quiet for another moment, and when she starts speaking again, she sounds a little more subdued than before, careful, almost. "Okay, what if I don't tell you any specifics?"

"Laurel - "

"Just - I'll be super vague," Laurel says quickly, and Sara resigns herself to it. Laurel will find a way to tell her regardless, even if Sara hangs up on her and stops taking her calls. She's tenacious like that. "Look, you know the things Robert Queen is into, right? SCPD has been trying to take him down for years, but he's too careful, and too rich. Oliver was...a person of interest for awhile. Nothing conclusive, but Sara...just be careful, okay? Be smart about this."

"I'm always smart," Sara says flippantly, but it falls rather flat, even to her own ears.

"I'm serious, Sara. Robert Queen is big time."

"I _know_ ," Sara says irritably. "Look, what do you want me to do? Stop seeing him because of who his family is? I'd be no better than those idiots that were too chicken to ask us out in high school because our dad was a cop."

"That was a little different."

"Not really," Sara replies, rubbing one of her temples against the onset of a burgeoning headache. "Am I supposed to be suspicious of him now that I know the police were looking into him? He's the guy's _son_ ; they were going to look into him no matter what." Laurel makes a vague noise of agreement. "Plus his parents cut him off, so they're obviously not on good terms anymore. Besides, Tommy said he's a good guy, right?"

"Tommy thinks everybody is a good person," Laurel says, with frustrated affection. "Look, I don't wanna fight about this, okay? I'm not trying to...I mean, God, Sara. You haven't _slept with him_ yet!"

"It doesn't mean anything," Sara grumbles. It's not _that_ big of a deal. "We both have roommates, is all."

"Like that's stopped you before," Laurel says dryly. "Look, clearly you like him, and I want you to be happy. I just want you to be careful, is all. Look before you leap, for once."

"I _am,_ " Sara insists. "I am."

"Okay," Laurel replies, seemingly satisfied. Sara smiles at her ceiling proudly - a year ago, this would've turned into a screaming match. They've come a long way, she and Laurel. "Seriously, I can't _believe_ you haven't boned him yet."

"Oh my God, please let that go," Sara says, and yanks the phone away from her ear with a wince as Laurel laughs, loud and obnoxious, straight into the speaker. 

Okay - on some fronts, they've come a long way. Whatever - some things you don't grow out of.

 

 

Another perk of dating Oliver: she's getting ripped. Like - she has _abs_ , now. Or...the beginnings of them, anyway.

They work out together most days, as it's often the only time they have to see each other. Oliver's class schedule is...intense, to say the least, and Sara's been picking up extra shifts at the cafe whenever she can, trying to save up enough money to get her parents something nice for Christmas. She knows it isn't necessary, but - still. 

He likes to teach her things, she's noticed. It's a common man thing, apparently, is what Babs says, but Oliver seems to take a special pleasure in it that has more to do with her than it does his ego - he legitimately gets excited about how good she's getting. He brags about her, even. Thea complains about it a lot - almost as much as she teases them both for it. 

"I don't _brag_ ," he says, spotting her on the bench press. "We just chat about our day most evenings, and as my day often involves you and the gym, I - "

"Brag," Sara says on a grunt, finishing her set and lifting the bar back into its rest. Oliver helps her slide it in, but she doesn't need him as much as she used to. "It's okay, I know I'm very impressive. You don't have to be shy about it."

Oliver shakes his head at her, playing his part in their little routine. "The size of your head is impressive, maybe."

"My head is proportional!"

Oliver leans down and kisses her forehead quickly. "Yes, of course it is."

Sara grins, pumped up from adrenaline and the curve of his smile, the hint of mischief in it that he only lets loose when he's truly comfortable. "C'mon, tiger. Your turn."

Oliver's average bench is like, ridiculous, and Sara likes spotting him - not because she'll be any help, particularly (as if she really could be - she is getting better, but she's still a beginner, and holy fuck, he can lift _a lot_ ), but because it's sort of hot to stand over his head and watch his muscles contract while he bench presses like, twice her body weight. She's never had a thing for buff guys really, before Oliver. He doesn't really need a spotter, anyway. He never used one before.

"It's very weird," Oliver says haltingly, pausing to breathe as he works his way through his first set, "when you," pause, "stare at me like that."

"You don't like it?" Sara asks, cocking her hip playfully. "You should be used to being ogled by now."

Oliver shoots her a look, pausing with the bar high, his arms extended and biceps strained to their limit. Sara loses track of her thought. 

"Nobody ogles me but you."

"Good," Sara says absently, watching his stomach contract as he moves smoothly into another rep. She shakes herself out of it after a second, yanking her eyes back up to his face. He looks faintly amused, in an indulgent way. "I mean - that's probably not true. No offense Oliver, but you're not very observant when it comes to that sort of thing."

Oliver finishes his set with a sigh and sets the bar down, rising from the bench to add more weight for the next one. He barely seems out of breath. "I'm observant."

"The waitress at the diner last night was totally hitting on you and you didn't even notice."

"She was not hitting on me," Oliver says, rolling his eyes. "You always think every woman who says more than two words to me is hitting on me."

"That's because most women who say more than two words to you _are_ hitting on you, dumbass, you're super hot," Sara replies. Oliver just scoffs, waving his hand at her dismissively. "Anyway, I'm not jealous or anything, I'm just saying - you know. You're not objective."

"And you are?"

"No," Sara replies slowly, reaching out and touching his shoulders as he lays back down on the bench, guiding him gently into place. He looks up at her, his mouth pulled into a halfway smile. "But I have a vested interest."

"I see," is all Oliver says. 

Sara smiles back and keeps her hands on him as he starts his next set, lightly touching the backs of his arms as he does the reps, following his movements patiently. It's a heady thing, to feel the power in them, the strain and the softness. Oliver watches her hands the entire time, steady and quiet, his breath breaking the silence in periodic bursts.

She takes a step back when he finishes, to clear her head. She feels a bit dizzy, her palms tingling where they'd touched his skin. "Are you gonna do another set?"

He shakes his head, rising to his feet and moving slowly towards her, around the bench. Sara watches dazedly, her pulse rising to a crescendo as he pulls her into a kiss, right there in the middle of the gym, wrapping his sweaty arms around her waist and squeezing tight. 

It's not an indecent kiss or anything, as overwhelming as it is, but it's still a school gym, and somebody wolf whistles at them almost immediately. Oliver pulls back and smiles ruefully, easing them into a more casual embrace. Sara just breathes steadily and winds her fingers into his t-shirt, trying to calm her racing heart. 

"Sorry," he says after a moment. "Your hands, that was - "

Sara nods, tilting her head to the side so he can rest his chin against her temple. She eyes a couple boys over his shoulder, blatantly staring at them from the treadmills. They look away quickly, when Sara gives them the evil eye.

"If only we could afford our own weights - hey! There's an idea for your Christmas list."

"I'd settle for a bedroom that doesn't share a wall with my little sister," Oliver replies wryly. He pulls back fully, brushing Sara's ponytail back over her shoulder with a casual sweep of his hand. "Hey - you know, Valentine's Day is coming up. Do you want to do something?"

Sara wrinkles her nose. "I'm not into the whole cliche thing. You don't have to like, do a big special night or anything."

"Well, neither am I," Oliver concedes, "But Thea is. And she'll be at Roy's that night, probably."

"And you're...okay with that?"

"I've been informed that should I decide to be anything else, I am welcome to shove my condescending, overprotective bullshit up my own ass," Oliver replies. Sara laughs. "No, I like Roy. He's good to her. And Thea's happy; that's all that matters."

"That is a very mature outlook," Sara says in approval. Oliver nods, looking vaguely proud of himself. "So - that big apartment, all to ourselves? For a whole night? Be still my heart."

"Just us and the incredibly busy nightclub above our heads," Oliver replies. "I was thinking we could order in, maybe rent a movie or - "

"Do some weight training?" Sara interrupts, squeezing his waist. Oliver breaks off into a laugh. "Yeah, I'm down. It sounds great."

"Okay." He kisses her forehead once more. "Come on, birdie, let's hit the showers. One of these days I'll manage to spend some time with you in clean clothes."

"I like the sweaty thing actually," Sara says, and Oliver does the shoulder scrunch thing he does when she flirts outrageously like this. She still hasn't figured out if it's because he's embarrassed, or bashful, or what. "It works for you, the whole...gym bro look."

"Stop, you'll make me blush," Oliver says dryly, and tosses her towel straight at her face.

 

 

Sara's mother has a habit of showing up in town unexpectedly, which drove Laurel up the wall when she was in college. Sara, on the other hand, often does the same thing when she visits home, so she doesn't really have a lot of room to get annoyed about it.

"Your mother?" Oliver asks, shamelessly reading Sara's text over her shoulder. They're studying - well, Oliver is, as much as he can, when Sara is lying on top of him, texting and playing Pet Rescue Saga on her phone. But he does have a book open. "You didn't mention she was coming to visit."

"I didn't know," Sara replies, laughing at Dinah's reply. She's pretty skilled with text lingo, for a middle-aged history professor who thinks modern-day culture peaked at Monty Python. "She always does this - surprises us. I don't think she even tells my dad she's going to do it; it's like she wakes up one morning and thinks 'I think I'll go see Sara today,' and hops on the train."

Oliver chuckles softly, and Sara leans into his chest a little more, feeling the vibration of it against her shoulder. "That seems like it'd be rather ominous to deal with."

"Nah, my mom is great," Sara says. "Now if it were my _dad,_ that'd be something different."

"No kidding," Oliver agrees. Sara smiles a little, to herself. "If my parents were the type to do that, I'm fairly certain Thea and I would never get a good night's sleep."

Sara's phone feels suddenly very heavy in her hands. It's the first time Oliver's mentioned anything about his parents - like many things between them, it's been silently acknowledged, but not discussed. "If they were the type to visit at all, you mean."

Oliver huffs softly. "Yeah."

"Hey." Sara slides her phone onto Oliver's nightstand and rolls over, just enough so she can see his face, peering down at her. "I'd invite you, but that'd be weird. But if it makes you feel better - we're _definitely_ going to talk about you."

"Oh, great," Oliver says dryly, and Sara grins and rolls back, hitching one of her legs up and propping it up against his bent knee, squirming around until she's comfortable. Oliver tosses his book aside and steadies her with a hand on her shoulder, strangely content to be used as a human couch. Or jungle gym, maybe. "You know, I dated this girl once in high school, and when she broke up with me she gave me this list of all the things I did wrong. I still have it."

"Oh my God." Sara bursts out laughing. "You're kidding me - somebody did that to me once, too. That girl with the tattoos I told you about - Lilly."

"Did you keep it, too?"

" _Fuck_ no," Sara replies incredulously, "not all of us are into masochism, _Hamlet_."

"I try to think of it as constructive criticism," Oliver replies, and Sara dissolves into laughter again, muffling it against one of his arms. "Or...something. I don't know." He laughs along, a little softer, but just as genuine. "Okay, maybe it's a little masochistic."

"A tad."

"My point is - and the reason I kept it - is that I try to do the opposite of all those things now," Oliver says. "I don't cheat, or lie, or steal money from my mother's purse - "

"Oh jeez, Ollie," Sara says, snorting.

"And I definitely haven't told all my friends that you don't wear underwear underneath your cheerleading uniform at football games, so I'm just saying - I think I deserve some credit, when you decide what to tell your mother."

"Well, I never wear underwear," Sara says logically. Oliver makes a strangled sound, halfway between a laugh and a cough. "So I wouldn't be mad if you told people. I'm pretty sure they can tell, anyway."

"Right, these leggings you wear all the time," Oliver says, slapping the side of her thigh. Sara yelps in surprise. "Not that I've noticed, or anything. 'Ogling me in public' was also on the list."

"You sound like you were quite the cad," Sara says, holding the laughter back as best she can and digging her elbow into his stomach, as payback for the slap. "Good thing you're all reformed now."

"I try," Oliver replies, in that tone he gets when he's making a joke, but he really sort of means it. He tends to do that a lot, Sara's noticed. 

"Well," she says, rolling her eyes fondly, "we have that in common, at least. My list was a bit shorter though - you know all she put down? 'Don't be such a bitch.'"

"Not very constructive," Oliver says sympathetically.

"Not so much." Sara lets herself slide down his body, shoulders pressed against his chest, using one leg to pull his in closer, so that he's wrapped around her back like a blanket. Oliver hums a little, grabbing one of her hands and tangling their fingers together against his thigh. "But I didn't take it to heart, unlike you, clearly."

"Well, you're not a bitch."

Sara smiles drowsily, dizzy with the warmth of being close to another person. She forgets what it's like, sometimes. "Yes, I am."

Oliver makes a disapproving noise and kisses the back of her neck. "You're really not."

"I'll tell my mom you said that."

"Tell her I'm working on convincing you, too," Oliver says. Sara laughs again, and agrees.

 

 

It's not like Sara's not aware that she's living the beginning of a Lifetime movie - dreamboat guy with a questionable past, model behavior, the down to earth girl who always thought she was smarter than those _other girls_ , but he's just so _nice,_ it couldn't be true, could it? The rumors, her family's warnings to be careful. The email from Babs, with the old newspaper articles she dug up, and the slightly frantic warning that accompanied them: _uh I take back what I said about him being perfect - are you sure you trust him as much as you say?_ Like, Sara knows how it looks. She's not stupid.

But she also knows what it's like to _be_ the dreamboat with the shady corners, to be the bad kid that moms are afraid of, the girl in the back row with the black eye and unwashed hair. Good never came naturally to her, and for a long time Sara thought that it was her destiny to be her sister's photo negative, the gravel to Laurel's steel, like it was karma or something - for Laurel to be so great, Sara had to be equally awful, right? Every time Laurel did something right, would Sara have to do something wrong? 

It sounds dumb, but Sara'd believed it. She'd lived it, _strived_ for it, like it was gospel. She still does, sometimes, because - some stupid part of her heart still feels guilty every time she wins, like every victory is stolen, a betrayal of her sister. As if it's not her place, somehow. It's ridiculous, and Laurel's said so, many times, until they're both sick of talking about it, but - it's something Sara still feels. She doesn't know how to turn it off.

What right does she have, to stand in judgment of Oliver Queen and his mistakes? As if Sara Lance is above that? As if he doesn't have a right to secrets, and missteps, and impossible decisions that weigh on his conscience, even years later? Sara can't be with somebody who doesn't see her clearly, and accept her for who she is, good and bad - and how can she ask that of him, if she's not willing to do the same? What business is it of hers anyway, if he was a criminal once? Sara's no stranger to that, either.

Or maybe she's just stubborn. That's what Laurel says, anyway, and frankly Sara tends to trust her opinion on such things. It's not like she's ever wrong, after all.

 

 

The impromptu nap at Oliver's place derails Sara's day only a little - and in a good way, so she's not all that annoyed - but she does have to negotiate her mother down to dinner, instead of lunch. Dinah is agreeable as always - she never seems bothered by that kind of thing. She's more than fine on her own, anyway. 

"Darling," Dinah greets breezily, when Sara finally finds her at the restaurant they'd agreed upon - she's hidden in the back corner, buried in her laptop, oblivious to the strange look she's getting. "So good to see you - have a seat, let me just finish this sentence."

Sara kisses her cheek and smiles indulgently, sliding into the booth across from her. "Big paper?"

"No," Dinah says absently, over the rapid-fire clacking of the computer keys, "blogging, actually. Someone on the internet is _dreadfully_ wrong about Leo the Isaurian's influence on Byzantine Iconoclasm."

"How _dare_ they," Sara says, and snags the drink menu from behind the napkin holder. Dinah hums and hits a few more keys, decisively, then nods in satisfaction and clicks the laptop shut. "Iconoclasm is the crosses, right?"

"Sort of," Dinah says with a laugh, putting her laptop away and reaching out for Sara's hand once it's safely back in its case. "It doesn't matter - look at you! You look well, sweetheart, did you do something to your hair?" 

"It grew," Sara says, deadpan.

"Ah yes, that happens," Dinah replies, nonplussed. She smiles brightly; Sara can't help but smile back. "Now let's get the basics out of the way - classes? Work? Friends? How are they?"

"Fine, fine, and good," Sara replies. "I did well on the stats midterm, so I'll probably pass, thank God."

"Oh wonderful, I knew you'd pull it off."

"And Babs told me to tell you hi." Sara pauses for a second, steeling herself. "And I'm seeing someone."

"Oh?" Dinah raises an intrigued eyebrow. "Who's the lucky girl this time?"

"It's a guy, actually," Sara says. She squirms a little in her seat, self-conscious. "I'm surprised Laurel hasn't spilled her guts to you and Dad; she knows the whole thing."

"No, she hasn't mentioned it." Dinah smiles at her kindly, her 'supportive mom' mode clearly fully engaged. "He must be quite charming, you don't usually waste much time on men."

"Geez, Mom," Sara says, laughing. "Yeah, he's charming. He's a good guy. It's going well."

Dinah doesn't reply for a moment, obviously waiting for her to elaborate. She doesn't push when Sara doesn't, however. "Well, I'm happy if you are, Sara. You'll have to let me know how it turns out."

"I will."

"Your father will want to meet him." Dinah rolls her eyes, picking up her own menu. "So we'll have to delay that for as long as possible. You haven't put anything on Facebook, have you?"

Sara sighs heavily. "No, he doesn't have a Facebook." She grimaces. "My - the guy I'm seeing, I mean. Obviously Dad has one."

Dinah huffs, obviously amused. "You could just say that you don't want me to know his name, you know."

"I was trying to be _polite_ ," Sara protests, and Dinah grins, shaking her head at her. "Fine - I don't want you to know his name. You're a terrible liar, Mom."

"I am not," Dinah says, aghast. 

"You _are,_ you're too absentminded," Sara says. "It's like you forget that things are supposed to be secret, or something - remember Laurel's sixteenth birthday present?"

"Alright well, there's no need to dredge up ancient history." Sara snickers, as Dinah sighs dramatically, pointedly turning her attention to the drink list. "Now, my train leaves at eight-thirty, and it's a ten minute walk to the station - how many of these flavored martinis can we try before then? What's your average martini-consumption time?"

Sara considers it for a moment. "I'm gonna say...two each."

Dinah eyes her over the rim of her glasses. "Well, that's quite modest." 

"I've been here before. They're huge."

"Don't limit your challenges, challenge your limits, Sara."

"Did you just quote that motivational kitten poster that's in your office?" Sara asks.

"I think I'll try the green apple one first," Dinah replies.

 

 

Sara's always felt more comfortable around her mother than anyone else in her family - like, she loves and adores her dad and Laurel, but she's rarely _at ease_ around them. There's just too much pressure there, for a lot of dumb reasons.

It's sort of how it goes in families with two kids, is what Sara's told - one latches onto Dad, while the other goes to Mom. And God knows Laurel and Quentin are two peas in the same wholesome, earnest, All-American pod, so it makes sense that Sara and Dinah followed suit. 

Dinah likes getting drunk and gossiping about her colleagues, picking philosophical arguments with her children's teachers and encouraging Sara to do scandalous things for the sole purpose of getting a funny reaction out of the more judicial-minded side of their family. In high school, when Sara was getting suspended left and right and generally running around making as much trouble as possible, Dinah was the one who'd laugh as soon as her dad was out of the room, flopping down on Sara's bed and congratulating her on a job well done, that mural was awfully ugly anyway and her graffiti job was a blessing in disguise - really, the school should be thanking her. Could it be that a career in art was in her cards? _Honestly darling, if you're interested, I went to grad school with someone who knows Lady Pink, I could probably get you an introduction._ So suffice to say, Sara actually wants her opinion, as opposed to Laurel's unsolicited one.

"Mom," Sara says. "If I ask you something, can you answer as like, a friend, not as my mother?"

"Well, I'll certainly try," Dinah replies easily. "I'm not sure how capable I am of erasing that bias completely, but I'll give it my best."

Sara smiles at her. "You're better than Dad."

"In some things, yes," Dinah says. "Hit me."

"So this man I'm seeing," Sara begins, going slow so as to choose her words as carefully as possible, "there are some things about him that are...public knowledge, I guess. Things that make him seem...dangerous. And everyone keeps warning me to be careful, but." 

"Is he in the mafia?" Dinah asks bluntly. 

Sara snorts. "No. His family might be, though."

"Ah." Dinah sips her second martini, something chocolate flavored with a giant marshmallow floating on top. "And so you're worried your father will arrest him?"

"No! Well," Sara admits, "okay, yes, but that's not like, my main concern."

"If it makes you feel better, Quentin comes close to arresting Tommy almost every time he and Laurel come for dinner," Dinah says. "I had to talk him out of issuing a parking citation last weekend because the poor man forgot to refresh the parking meter."

"God," Sara says, thinking dimly about her dad's inevitable sour reaction to the news that she's dating Robert Queen's son. It was bad enough when Laurel told him about Tommy, and he was just a shady rich kid, not an actual suspected criminal. "I guess the bright side is that I've totally got Laurel beat on the 'bad boyfriend' front. Finally - a real win."

"Oh, sweetheart, you've always had Laurel beat in _that_ contest," Dinah says, laughing and reaching out to pat Sara's hand. Sara just sighs, glumly swirling her martini with a swizzle stick. "Why don't you tell me what your issue is. We'll deal with your dad if the time comes, no need to fuss about it now."

"It's just," Sara says, "this guy - he's never given me any reason not to trust him. He's just, like, a good person. He _acts_ like a good person, you know? It's the little things. His opinions about stuff, the reactions he has when I tell him about my day. Little shit he does just to be nice, even when nobody's looking. He means it - it's not just to impress me."

"Well, he certainly sounds like an improvement over that girl with the tattoos," Dinah says. Sara shoots her a dirty look. "Sorry. Keep going."

"But then like - Babs and Laurel, they keep warning me to be careful, sending me this shit about his family, and - those are like, _facts._ How am I supposed to ignore that? He was probably involved with whatever it was his family was into, how could he not have been? So I feel like a naive idiot whenever I think that I know him better somehow, that because I have feelings for him, that means he's a good guy. But then I _also_ feel like a heel, because doesn't everyone deserve a fair shot? Or a second chance? Nobody's perfect, and it's not fair for me to judge him when he's never done anything to deserve it. He's not responsible for what his family does."

"How solid is this evidence?" Dinah asks. "Would your sister indict him with it?"

"Well, _Laurel_ would," Sara says. "Because she's Laurel. Any other lawyer - no."

"Hm," Dinah says, folding her arms and tapping her fingers against her own forearm. "That is a tough one."

"I really like him," Sara admits. "I'm never sure if I'm being objective."

"Objectivity is not your strong suit," Dinah replies. "Best to not even bother."

"Oh, _thanks_ , Mom."

"It's not a bad thing!" Dinah laughs. "Oh, Sara - I give your father a hard time, but he and Laurel - the world couldn't turn without people like them, you know? They hold everything together, make it run smoothly. You and I - we're different. We're not so good at thinking the way they do, we just...come at things from a very different angle." Dinah shrugs. "Both perspectives have their strengths and weaknesses. It's not that they're right and we're wrong, or vice versa - life doesn't work like that."

"Yeah, but which one is better for _this_ problem?" Sara asks. "If it were Laurel...or Dad...I mean, you know what they'd say. And I'm not a hundred percent sure that they wouldn't be right."

"Well, they might be," Dinah admits. "But they're not the ones who are making this decision - it's you. So their opinions on the matter aren't all that relevant, are they?"

"I guess," Sara says.

"Listen," Dinah says, leaning in, "I'm not about to tell you what to do. My opinion wouldn't matter much either - especially since I've no idea who this man is or what this mysterious past of his might be, so it'd be silly of me to take a side. But even if I did know - I trust you more than I trust evidence, Sara. You have an intuition about people. And sometimes the facts can be wrong, or not what they seem. Laurel and your father aren't always good at seeing the shades of grey in life."

"You don't think I'm just a dumb girl in love?" Sara asks. "That my feelings are clouding my judgment?"

"You say that as if your feelings aren't a valid part of your judgment." Dinah scoffs. "You're not a girl anymore, darling, and you're certainly not dumb. I trust you to take care of yourself, and make sure you don't get into a truly unsafe situation. Beyond that - your life is yours. If getting involved with this man is a mistake, then it's still _yours_ to make - and even relationships that don't last can be important, and teach us things."

"Really?" Sara asks. "Even that guy I dated in sixth grade, who used to eat worms at recess?"

"Well, it taught you not to kiss someone before you know where their mouth has just been, didn't it?" Dinah asks, and Sara snorts loudly, muffling it into her sleeve. "You know I'm right."

"Oh, you're always right," Sara says, rolling her eyes at her, "don't act like you don't enjoy it."

"I never claimed I didn't," Dinah says, somehow managing to still look dainty as she drains the last two ounces of her martini. "Now that was number two. What time is it?"

Sara checks her phone. "Seven fifty-two."

"If I finish a third one before we have to leave will you tell me his name?" Sara laughs. "No dice? What about - just the first initial? His zodiac sign, perhaps?"

"I think he's a Taurus," Sara says.

"Ah, Taurus and Capricorn, that's a good match."

"Like you care about astrology," Sara says, giggling.

"I could!" Dinah protests. "Your father's a Taurus too, you know."

"I really wish you hadn't told me that," Sara says.

 

 

Sara drops her tipsy mother off at the train station and decides to take a cab instead of the bus, a splurge that she doesn't really need to indulge in, but it's better than riding with the late night weekend crowd for an hour and a half. She checks her phone as her driver makes his way out of the parking lot, smiling at the picture of the typo on the train ticket that her mom's sent her, rolling her eyes at a chain email that Tommy's forwarded to her, his third one this week. 

She's tapping out a text to Laurel about it when her phone interrupts with a text from Oliver, a short message asking her how dinner went. Sara stares at the picture she'd taken of him for her contacts, a blurry shot of the side of his face as they were walking somewhere on campus. He's smiling, sort of, his eyes turned away, and there's something kind of endearing about the way his shirt collar is stretched out of place by the gym bag hanging from his shoulder. He looks so young, sometimes. It takes her off guard.

If he's done bad things, Sara thinks, then she's willing to listen to his reasons why. She's willing to bet he had good ones.

 _apparently we're a good match,_ she texts back. _our zodiacs are compatible_

 _Thea told me the same exact thing_ , Oliver sends back. Sara smiles and leans her head back against the seat. Yeah - she'd mentioned that to Sara, too. Once or twice.

 

 

After Christmas comes and goes, Valentine's Day creeps up out of nowhere, a reality check in the middle of a dreary, sluggish month. Sara spends a lot of it at the club with the Queens, doing her homework in their living room while Oliver helps Thea balance the books, which is apparently a gargantuan feat that they're supposed to trade off, month to month. 

("She sucks at it, though," Oliver says, and Thea smacks him.)

Sara's decided to try the Tacoma City Marathon with him this year, so they've started training together, graduating from the treadmills at the gym to the city trails. Roy comes with them sometimes, and gives Sara tips that counter Oliver's, a sort of sneaky way to give him shit, and it's legitimately hilarious how easy it is for those two to wind each other up. Thea and Sara start doing this thing where they bake stuff together, too - she'll find a recipe for some kind of quirky dessert and Thea will go grocery shopping, and they'll spend Saturday afternoons waging war with the oven, emerging only when they are truly victorious and satisfied with their mini apple pie cookies, or zebra stripe cake with butternut frosting. Thea starts an Instagram account for the pictures of their creations, and - being Thea, manages to make it respectably internet popular within a few weeks. Sara may or may not be considering including it on her resume.

One weekend, they even get snowed in. Roy and Oliver spend an hour attempting to dig Thea's car out of the parking lot while she and Sara watch from the windows on the private box upstairs (like, it's sweet of them, but it's really fucking funny too, okay, they keep falling down) before giving up and retreating back inside, shivering with cold and soaked through to the bone. Thea has no sympathy and makes them both take off their shoes and socks before they track sleet and snow all over her clean floors, and Sara laughs harder than she ever has in her life, watching them picking their way across the club in their bare feet, glaring and sniping at each other like little boys.

The four of them spend their snow day watching the Star Wars trilogy on the big screen on the dance floor, the one the DJs use to project music videos and advertisements onto, dragging the artsy couches from the lounge over and loading them up with pillows to make them actually comfortable. Thea makes popcorn and serves it in one of the giant novelty margarita glasses, and Roy makes a huge batch of Chai Blossom specifically for the occasion. Oliver falls asleep halfway through Empire Strikes Back, and Sara pokes him awake for the fight scenes, before finally giving up and falling asleep herself, sprawled across his lap. They wake up with horrible neck pain and "Mr. Lance" and "Mrs. Queen" written on their foreheads in magic marker, respectively (thanks a lot, Thea), but Sara doesn't get mad about it. She knows they're fucking cute, and they did fall asleep first, so they deserved it.

It's a nice thing, having something like this - a puzzle to fit into, a spot on a couch, a favorite mug in a kitchen, a _place._ Sara feels more comfortable with it than she's felt with anything in a long time - since home, probably, those precious days before she and Laurel started to fight, before the suspensions and the arrests, when her dad was happy with his job and they were all content, where they were. She could get used to it - _is_ getting used to it, which should scare her, but - it doesn't. For the first time, it really, really doesn't. 

Babs and Laurel hardly ever bring up the Robert Queen stuff anymore, not after this long, and especially not after they get to know him a little more. And on their private Valentine's Day, late at night when the club upstairs is dark and everything is finally quiet, Oliver tells her about it. 

"You already know most of it," he says, pulling her close beneath the blankets and wrapping his arms around her waist. Their bare legs rub together, Sara's calloused feet catching against the soft sheets as she scoots closer. Her shirt rides up; she can feel the scritch of his arm hair against her abdomen. "You have to. Your sister works for the Starling DA, she had to have told you…"

"She didn't tell me anything," Sara says. "I asked her not to." Oliver sighs a little, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. "But yeah, I have a general idea."

"My whole life," Oliver begins, with a steady determination, like he's been working up to this for a long time, "I knew something wasn't right. Even when I was little, I could tell. The things I'd overhear, all these tense moments when I knew I was in danger, even though they'd tell me I wasn't. I never thought it was normal."

"I know that feeling," Sara says quietly when he pauses, reaching out to lay her palm against his shoulder. He opens his eyes at her touch, looking troubled. "My dad - you know. He worked organized crime. We were threatened a few times - someone broke into our house, when I was ten. My mom and I were home at the time; we hid in a closet while they ransacked the place. They never found us, thankfully."

"Christ," Oliver breathes, "I mean - you know it was probably my family who ordered that." Sara smiles wryly and shrugs. "You don't care?" 

"It wasn't _you,_ " Sara says, and he flinches, almost imperceptibly. "You were, what, twelve? You can't have been involved _that_ early."

"I was involved, though," Oliver says heavily.

"I figured."

Oliver's grip on her waist loosens slightly. "I wish you'd take this seriously."

"I _am_ \- hey!" Sara scowls at him. "Did you think I'd be mad? I'm not stupid - he's your dad, Ollie. Come on. I can read between the lines."

"Okay," Oliver says, settling back down, "yeah. You do do that, quite a bit."

Sara waits until he meets her eyes again, and he seems to relax a bit, the tension in his shoulders easing. "C'mon, talk to me. Tell me what you need to tell me."

Oliver closes his eyes again before he starts speaking. Sara sort of gets why. "It was always a foregone conclusion that I would take over for him someday. Sometimes I thought I wanted to, but when I was thirteen, I saw...uh. Something that...changed my mind." He takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly before he continues. "By the time I was in high school I knew I wanted to leave, but - there was Thea. She was so young, still, and I couldn't - I couldn't go without her. I couldn't leave her there."

Sara bites her lip, something hard and painful lodged in her throat. "Oh, man."

"Yeah. So I stayed, I just - I guess I thought it'd be safer that way, if we did it at the same time. We'd talked about it, for years - since she was just a kid. My mother, she - she helped me shield her from the worst of it, but by the time she was old enough to start noticing what was going on, things were...bad. The police, the DA - your father was chief, by then, and he wasn't giving up. He had other rivals, too, who - " Oliver's voice breaks, and he clears his throat. "So I...planned it. When I turned eighteen, he wanted me to take over a few of the businesses, start working my way in, but I - I made up excuses. I told him I needed a degree first, some life experience. I went to China, for awhile. I just kept putting him off."

"Jesus," Sara breathes, "that's why you flunked out of all those Ivy Leagues? You were _stalling_?"

"Well, yes and no," Oliver says, opening his eyes to give her a wry smile, "that was only part of it. I really did almost party myself to death. And I was never that good of a student."

"I mean, it's not like you didn't have a good reason to be distracted."

"Maybe." Oliver shuts his eyes again. His hands are fisted in her shirt; she doesn't think he's noticed. "We had to wait until Thea was sixteen, that's how old you have to be to become emancipated. My mother helped us, she - she made it happen, really. She had some money Robert couldn't touch, locked in a trust fund from her grandparents that she transferred to my name - that's how we got the capital to open the club. She sends us cash here and there, when she can. And I don't know how she managed to keep him from finding out what we were planning, or how she handled his...reaction." Oliver stops talking abruptly, breathing quickly, his chest moving up and down. "I haven't talked to him in two years, since the day we left Starling. He hasn't sent anyone after us yet."

Sara lets it sit for a moment, until Oliver starts to tense up again. "Sixteen? You mean Thea's only…"

"The liquor license is in my name. Everything is, actually, just for formality. But it's _hers_ , she started it, got it running, made it a success. Most people think she's older and she just...doesn't correct them. The board doesn't care as long as they don't catch her tending bar." Sara is quiet, processing this, and it seems to trigger Oliver's realization - his eyes flutter open and he lets go of Sara's shirt beneath the blankets, looking almost startled. "Sorry."

"Don't," Sara says, waving it off. "It's...don't."

Oliver just sighs, unwinding his arms from around her waist. "Look, I'm - I don't want you to think that I'm some helpless victim in all of this. There were things I was complicit in, things I participated in - I can't say that I didn't enjoy some of it. Most of it happened when I was of age, too - that's my responsibility. I chose to do it."

"Choice isn't always that simple," Sara says, gently, but sure of this, of that truth. "If someone is holding a gun to your head and tells you to jump off the roof or they'll shoot you, that's not a choice, Ollie. And you avoided as much as you could, right? You went to school, you took trips - " Sara reaches out and touches his tattoo, another puzzle piece falling into place. Oliver looks calmly back at her. "If you feel guilty, that's fine. That's understandable. But don't tell me you _chose_ it. You don't have control over what you're born into."

"But you have control over how you react to it," Oliver says gravely. "Sara, I didn't...always react well."

"Nobody does, all the time." Sara huffs, reaching out to touch his face, get his eyes back on hers. "Did you kill anybody?"

" _No_ ," Oliver says, his knees twitching and knocking into her shins.

"Did you help kill anybody? Or cover it up?" Oliver shakes his head, jaw clenched. "Okay. So I mean, you probably got into fights sometimes, right? But so did I. Maybe you stole some shit - I did that too. I'm still banned for life from the Ben Franklin in Redmond, you know."

"What - " Oliver blinks at her. "What the fuck would you want to steal from a Ben Franklin?"

"Uh, plastic beads," Sara says. Oliver looks momentarily stunned, then laughs, an incredulous tinge to it. "I went through a friendship bracelet stage. I dunno - shut up."

"Friendship bracelets," Oliver repeats, sounding more like himself than he has during this entire conversation. "That's adorable."

"Well," Sara teases, "I'm just saying - you're not the only one in this bed with a sordid criminal past."

"The things I stole were much bigger than plastic beads, birdie," Oliver says. "And my past is...not just my past. Do you get what I'm saying? My father, he's not going to leave us alone forever. I _know_ it. And I don't know what he'll do if he finds out I'm seeing you, what with your dad, and Laurel - fuck." Oliver rubs his eyes. "God, I should never have - "

"Do not even," Sara says, jabbing him in the gut with one fist. He grunts - in actual pain, too, not just in surprise, which is satisfying. "Just don't go there."

"Fine." Oliver rolls his head over on the pillow, still looking grave. "But your father's not going to be exactly happy about us either. Your sister definitely isn't, even though she pretends not to mind."

"You leave my family to me," Sara says, feeling suddenly lightened, in a weird way. It's a strange thing to feel, after such a heavy conversation, but there's something liberating in this moment too, the freedom of having finally conquered a secret. "And as for yours...we'll figure something out. Maybe we can get some leverage, somehow, something big enough so that he'll leave you alone. Your mom would help, right?"

"Probably. I'm not sure." Oliver reaches out for one of her hands, cradling it gently between both of his. "I don't want to put you in danger. Like, you have to understand - you would be. If we're not careful. My father would never harm me or Thea, but - you're a different story. He doesn't care about you."

Sara sets her jaw. "I can take care of myself." She can see the words forming on his lips, so she cranes her neck and kisses them away quickly, before they have a chance to form. "I know how that sounds. But I mean it. I don't say things that aren't true. You know that."

"Yes," Oliver says.

"Listen," Sara says, the familiar thrum of adrenaline rising, like what she feels when they're running along the bay, pressing weights in the gym. She knows what she's about to say, and exactly how to say it, which isn't something she can say very often. She also knows that this is what her mother had meant, when she'd talked about Sara's intuition. Maybe it's not just a sense, maybe it's just - knowing when to leap, and when to let yourself fall. Listening to that instinct that tells you to push hard and keep pushing, to chase the finish line, straighten your shoulders and demand better. To step off the treadmill, and start running to get somewhere. "I'm not perfect, either. You say you've done bad things - well, I have, too. Maybe it's not the _same_ kind of bad, but you don't have a monopoly on guilt, or regret, Oliver. And you don't get to decide that your bad is worse than mine, or that I'm above it, or you. You get it?"

"Okay," Oliver says slowly. It's dim in the bedroom, but Sara can still see his face, enough to know he's listening, and listening carefully. "Yes. I get it."

"And I want to be in love with you," Sara says, the words coming out in a breathless rush. "I'm not yet, but - I _want to be._ You know? I wanna get there with you. We're on our way now, and it's good. It could be so good, Oliver."

He doesn't reply, but she can hear him breathing unsteadily. His hands are still holding one of hers, and they're trembling. 

"You don't have to be perfect to be with me," Sara tells him. "You don't even have to be _good_. Because I'm sure as hell not - some days less than others. And I don't give a single shit about your father, or what he made you do. You hear me? Not one."

"Yeah," Oliver manages, strangled and quiet.

"Whatever problems we'll have - we'd have them anyway. Even if we broke up right now, they'd still exist. We just wouldn't have each other to help deal with them." Sara reaches up with her free hand and traces the slope of his nose tenderly, following the line of his brow, down behind his ear, to his neck, his collarbone. Oliver leans into her touch, groaning softly. "I'm not that easy to get rid of, Ollie."

"I wasn't trying to," Oliver says. "I would never want to, Sara."

"Then I guess that's our plan."

"Yeah," he replies. Sara touches his face again; it's damp. She knows hers is, too. "You and me. That's the plan."

"We'll figure something out. Shh, come here. We'll figure it out." Sara tugs him in, wrapping her arms around his neck, wishing suddenly that she were taller, bigger, so she could tuck him away inside of her and never let the world get to him. She can feel him shuddering, little waves of sadness and stress undulating through his body. Sara tries her best to ride them with him, to pull her own feelings into it at the same time, get them out and get through them, here in this private, safe space. She doesn't know how long they lay there together, but it's long enough to forget that she was ever anywhere else, that there was ever a time when they weren't touching, side by side in the dark. 

"Birdie," Oliver says, after a while, a soft murmur against her neck. Sara hums softly, to let him know she's listening. "Thank you."

"I didn't do it just for you," Sara says, honestly. 

"Maybe not. But still." He shifts a little, so that his face is against her collarbone instead, his hands laying still on her waist, big warm palms, pressed flat against her ribs. "Do you still want to work out tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"You set the alarm, right?"

Sara grins into the dark. Her lips are chapped, and they hurt a little when she smiles, sore from the cold air - and all the crying probably didn't help, but - whatever. She's not moving from this spot for anything. "Seven?"

"That works," Oliver says.

"Yeah," Sara replies.


End file.
